Unhonoured and unfriended he shall die,
Withered and mummied with the hot dry plague.
Such oracle divine behoves me trust
With single faith, or, be I faithless, still
The vengeance must be done. All things concur
To point my purpose; the divine command
My sore heart-grief for a loved father’s death,
The press of want, the spoiling of my goods,
The shame to see these noble citizens,
Proud Troy’s destroyers, basely bent beneath